¶ Hic Pugnabant per vijtem dies.
Wel arayed on horse rydande, [folio 222b]
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With fair scheld & spere In hande.
Many a man ther strokes toke,
That many of hem her lyff for-soke;
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Many a body was ther to-koruen,
And many gode knyȝt was ther storuen.
¶ And thus ferde thay til it was nyght,
That thei of sonne had no syght,
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That thei most nede take her rest.
On morwe were thei al prest
That ffyght aȝeyn to be-gynne;
For that wolde thei neuere blynne,
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Vnto that on were for-done,—
And that scholde now be sone.
¶ And thus ffauȝt thei to-gedur samen—
Alle on ernest & not on gamen—
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With-oute rest dayes seuene;
But alle her dedis may no man neuene,
For that wolde be to longe dwellyng,
To moche werk of my tellyng:
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For who-so wolde aboute that dwelle
Alle her dedis for to telle,
Many bokes myght men make;
I wol not now vndirtake.—
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¶ But seuene dayes with-outen pes,
With-oute rest—so saith Dares—
Fauȝt thei to-gedir day for day,
Saue Achilles In his bed lay
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To hele the woundes that he hadde cauȝt,
When he & Mennon to-gedir fauȝt
Off that fyght that thei hadde meled.
The seuenthe day whan he was heled
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Off his woundes wel & fyn,
Off his Angwys & his pyn,
